


On You (I See the Glory)

by Skerda



Category: Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 1960s, F/M, Gen, Hippies, Woodstock, drug mention, is magnus his own warning?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 06:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6970144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skerda/pseuds/Skerda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Woodstock, 17 August, 1969. Magnus Bane bids farewell to the sixties in style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On You (I See the Glory)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short fic, my first for this fandom and my first piece of published writing in a very long time. I apologize for any typos, inconsistencies, etc.

Long, lean fingers trailed down his neck, digging into hot skin and sliding up through matted hair. Her mouth was warm and biting, teeth catching where they shouldn’t catch. In turn, his hands were gentle on her spine, bending her to him. She was like a wilted flower leaning towards the sun, her petal lashes brushing his face, her sighs whispering against his throat.

They hadn’t introduced themselves, preferring in the spirit of the occasion to simply meet and fall together. It was an unclear hour of the morning. At Magnus’s feet lay a young man sleeping, using a flattened cardboard box as a pillow. Magnus was careful to stay rooted to one spot; he didn’t want to stand on the boy. The woman’s fingers were like silk on his nape, cool and soothing after a riot of heat. When he closed his eyes, colours crawled behind his lids and pulsed to the beat of his heart. He knew, distantly, that the effects of the E he’d palmed off someone hours ago were finally beginning to fade. He couldn’t deny he was looking forward to the return of full cognizance; his last coherent thought had been days ago. For now, though, he was content to ride it out. The woman he stood twined around, beautiful though she was, was just another in a long line of lovers he’d had in the space of several hours. He had no doubt that, charming as he was, he was just one more of many to her, too. He’d never met so many people untethered by restraint, moving freely through a crowd and just taking what they wanted. She’d seen him coming from yards away, weaving around sleeping bodies on a path towards her, and had come to meet him halfway. She was wearing something with tassels, had anti-Nam and peace badges pinned to her shirt. He’d smiled, shown her his ‘Draft L.B.J’ pin, twirled a tassel around his finger. Her eyes were the purest blue he’d ever seen, her lips the deepest red.

She broke away from his mouth and looked up at him. “I gotta go, sugar. My hubby sent me out to look for smokes and I haven’t got a single one yet.’ She grabbed him roughly through his jeans, laughing when he laughed, amused and fond and turned on all at once. _Oh, mortals._

“Well, what am I going to do with myself when you go?”

“Oh, you’ll find something, hon. You’ll find something, handsome thing like you.” She sucked one last bruise onto his shoulder and moved away. He pulled her back to him by the wrist, pressing a handful of cigarettes he’d conjured up into her pocket. She beamed.

“Now all you need is a light, hmm?” He said.

“Now all I need is a light,” she agreed.

Her teeth were crooked; he didn’t care. He matched her smile with one of his own as she tottered off, humming to herself. He’d never see her again. Somehow, that thought didn’t matter, didn’t carry its usual sting. _The drugs_ , he thought. Or maybe it was the whole atmosphere of this place, the bright, surreal world in which he found himself. Little things seemed bigger, big things, smaller. The woman he’d briefly known would wander on, back to her tent, back to her husband and the short mortal life she’d share with him. She would be happy. That was enough. He hoped she’d remember him fondly, maybe once or twice, and then forget him forever. That was the way things were meant to be.

Magnus rocked on his heels, feeling the squelch of mud as he moved. He was, he knew, practically miles from the main stage. He could still hear the music quite clearly, but that didn’t mean anything; by this point, it was omnipresent, pervading his senses and every waking moment. He felt like it would follow him to the ends of the earth, to the end of his days, whenever that would be. Sleep itself was a distant memory. He hadn’t eaten since the morning of the day before, when he’d taken a few bites of something before tossing it aside. His system, and his magic along with it, was on the verge of complete breakdown. He didn’t worry; for some reason, entranced as he was by the drugs and the music and the people, there suddenly seemed very little to worry about. He started walking, picking his way over bottles and sleeping people. He had no general destination in mind, only hoping that by some chance he would find himself near the centre of things again. He had a blurry memory of someone shouting to him that The Who would take the stage soon, though ‘soon’ could have been six hours ago, for all he was aware. He whistled a few bars of _See Me, Feel Me._ When he squinted, he could make out the faint glow of light in the distance, where the sun was waiting to rise.

“Magnus.” A deep, exasperated voice, and one he knew well.

He flapped a hand out, groping until blunt fingers found his. “Yes, my darling Ragnor. Light of my life, fire of my loins…”

Ragnor snorted in disgust, ripping his hand away. “Where on earth have you been? Don’t touch me like that, I don’t know what sort of depravity you’ve been wallowing in.” Ragnor peered at him closely through the darkness. “I’ve lost Catarina too, but to be quite honest I think she left yesterday. Couldn’t stand it any longer. I’m inclined to give this whole business up as well. Far too much carousing for my tastes, though I know there’s barely enough to go around, as far as you’re concerned.”

Magnus turned a beatific smile on his old friend, genuinely glad to see him after their hours of separation. Ragnor was an old soul, still clinging to the customs and speech with which he’d grown up, all those centuries ago. Why he’d agreed to come here, Magnus couldn’t fathom. Festivals weren’t exactly Ragnor’s _style._ This whole decade, in fact, had done nothing but alarm his sensibilities. Magnus took pride in having no remaining sensibilities to alarm.

“You would leave me out here alone, without friend nor familiar face for companionship?”

Ragnor huffed. “You’re not short of companionship, don’t try to sweet talk me with that one. I’ve never known you to be without hangers-on. Although what people see in you, I’ll never know.”

“If denial of your attraction to me comforts you, my dear man…”

With another dignified huff, Ragnor made to turn away. Magnus knew what he would see: the same thing he’d seen countless times before. His old friend would wind his way through the crowd and out of the field: a lone figure, unremarkable amongst the thousands of others around him. Magnus knew his little run-down car was parked some ways away, deep in the heart of Bethel. Ragnor would get in, drive far, disappear for another few years. Reduced to a familiar, well-loved voice over the telephone, a face in a yellowing photograph, until they met again. _This,_ Magnus thought through a haze of sudden feeling, _would not do_. Not at all. The great tragedy of warlock friendships, everlasting though they were, was how easily they were taken for granted. Bound by centuries of laughter and love, their kind criss-crossed each other’s lives for years or even decades at a time before drifting once more away. Warlocks were not pack animals, seeking to live amongst their own; they walked a solitary road, the long road of eternity, whose end always felt hopelessly beyond reach. They were not like mortals, like that Mundane woman with a husband to smoke cigarettes with, the sun rising on their faces and the light of a new morning on their skin.  There was a strange beauty to their finite time together, to the satisfaction that came with a short life well-lived. Magnus knew there were countless others around him, fragile and unflinching in the face of time, who shared that same vitality. Brief though it was.

He thought again of the woman whose name he’d never know, who was back at her tent with her husband. Mundanes really were wonderful creatures. Smile, smile back. Kiss, kiss back. Simple. Sweet. Life 101: enjoy it while it lasts.

 _You’re not leaving just yet,_ he thought fiercely, running after Ragnor Fell and pulling him back through the crowd. He jerked them to a halt right in the middle, surrounding them with the people they’d always envied and pitied in turn. Catarina, Magnus knew, was a plane journey away, home in her little house beside the hospital. The distance suddenly didn’t feel like much; it felt like she was beside him, beside the two of them, as real as she could possibly be. Ignoring the complaints and grumbling from Ragnor, he began to dance, determined in a way he’d never been before. And as the strains of music poured from the stage, the light of morning spilled out over the field like a great tide, binding them together in one last golden moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
